


Thirteen Month Old Baby, Broke the Looking Glass

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Curses, Everybody Lives, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Birthday story for ewelock, who prompted: The reason Bilbo is single at age fifty isn’t because he is a confirmed bachelor. In fact, he would want nothing more than to settle down himself.</p><p>Bilbo is cursed.</p><p>Every time a romantic partner shows up he/she get into near death situations until they break it off with Bilbo. Drowning, trees falling on them, roof beams collapsing on their heads, etc.  And then Thorin steps in, determined to break this curse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirteen Month Old Baby, Broke the Looking Glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ewebean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewebean/gifts).



> This prompt deserves a funny story full of goofy hijinks; that's not what this is. But there is a happy ending, okay? I'm not giving a bucket of complete angst as a birthday present. 
> 
> Many happy returns, Miss ewelock!

_Where is Thorin_ , Bilbo had asked, breathless, even if it was no longer his concern. Even if he had cast aside his right to know, to fret, to _care_.

 _In one of the healing tents_ , Gandalf had replied, looking altogether tattered ‘round the edges— as ragged and grey as the hem of his robes, worn gossamer thin and threadbare. The sight chilled Bilbo to his marrow. _He has asked for you. If you mean to go, you must go quickly._

_If you mean to go._

Go where, Gandalf had not specified— to the tent, or to the Shire.

 _You must go quickly_.

That, at least, was entirely true.

Within the shadowed tent, the air hung heavy with the tang of blood, the sharpness of vinegar, and the cloying sweetness of yarrow. Heavy braziers burned hot, consuming every breath of cool, fresh air that dared creep through the canvas, and Bilbo felt the sweat pop upon his brow and above his lip the moment he slipped inside.

Laid out upon a cot, Thorin Oakenshield had never looked so very delicate in Bilbo’s eyes, as though a stray breeze would shatter his battered body to shards and powder. The King Under the Mountain, as pale as porcelain, and just as likely to crack.

“This is my fault,” Bilbo whispered, pressed so close against the tent wall that the canvas strained behind his shoulders. He watched each rise and fall of Thorin’s bandaged chest in shallow, struggling breaths; Bilbo watched unblinking, even as his eyes burned from brazier smoke, pungent herbs, and the tears he was unworthy to shed.

He was not some foolish tween any longer, clinging to the hope that this time, _this time_ might be different. That perhaps he might be allowed a smile, a touch, a squeeze of warmth in his heart, without tragedy following as dutifully as a faithful hound.

This was not a hopeful kiss stolen behind the Party Tree (two days after which Willcome Smallwater had taken a tumble into the Brandywine and nearly drowned), or a second dance on Midsummer’s Eve (Marigold Proudfoot still walked with a slight limp from the wagon incident shortly thereafter, though she hadn’t lost a single toe). This horrid curse had proven dangerous enough amid the pleasant rolling hills of the Shire, even without orcs and wargs, dragons and raging battles; on a quest such as this, his ill-fate was _deadly_ , and his lack of self-control was unforgivable.

Bilbo Baggins was a grown hobbit with some amount of good sense, adventuring notwithstanding— _he should have known better_.

Thorin’s brow was furrowed, his jaw held taut even in the midst of sleep, and Bilbo’s fingers itched to sooth away that painful tension as he had once been permitted to do, not so very long ago. In that foolish, unpardonable dream, when he had curled too close to the fire of Thorin’s unwise affections, and condemned them both to burn for his weakness.

Thorin groaned restlessly, the noise pitched high with pain, and suddenly even the weight of his shame could not keep Bilbo tethered. He recalled with achingly sharp clarity the feeling of Thorin’s callused hands lifting him over Erebor’s wall, rough and pitiless; he remembered those same hands tracing gentle patterns over his bare skin as they lay together in the stillness before dawn, leaving not a single inch untouched.

Now, Bilbo dared to torment himself again, to provide another memory, bitter as gall and sharp as dragons’ claws.

Thorin’s knuckles were torn, bloodied and not yet scabbed, so Bilbo touched the blunt lengths of his fingers instead, scarcely daring to breathe as he reached out. Thorin’s large hand was cool, and Bilbo could not swallow back the hitching sob that escaped him, deafeningly loud in the silent tent.

“Mm... Burglar?” The roll of Thorin’s voice, deep and grating, startled Bilbo more than enough to snatch his hand back. Or he might have done, if Thorin had not caught his wrist with more speed and strength of grip than Bilbo had possibly imagined he still possessed.

Eyes that had once been clear and blue as a pale winter sky were dark and hazy, but Bilbo was pinned by their attention just the same, even as Thorin blinked slowly and struggled to focus upon him. Finally, after those long, agonizing moments of heartbreaking confusion— Thorin Oakenshield was not meant to look so _lost_ — Bilbo shored up the last meagre remains of his nerve and stretched out his free arm, cupping his hand softly against Thorin’s jaw.

“Thorin,” he said, willing his voice to steady. Beneath his tentative touch, Thorin _smiled_ , and Bilbo felt his heart make every effort to rabbit out of his chest at that rare, blessed sight.

“Burglar... Bilbo. You came back.” It was a true smile, crooked and toothy, and Bilbo felt tears begin to spill hotly down his cheeks. It was obvious that each word was dragged from Thorin with great effort, but still he persisted, speaking slow and careful through the slur of pain. “You, you have a habit of making me regret, Master Baggins. A habit of... proving me wrong.”

“Shh, Thorin, please—” The fingers wrapped around his wrist tightened, before sliding down and weaving through his own. His throat tightened, and the room narrowed around him to this cot, to _this dwarf_ ; Bilbo pressed his thumb against Thorin's chin, just firmly enough to part his filthy beard and find damp, clammy skin beneath. Desperately, Bilbo found his voice. “I... I am sorry for what I said at the gate.”

Thorin's laugh was a terrible thing, jagged and coarse and hardly louder than a breath, but it ended with a gasp of pain so sharp, Bilbo felt its sting. Sucking shallow breaths, the pallor of Thorin's face was broken by twin spots of blotchy red across his cheeks.

“You,” Thorin managed to wheeze, ignoring Bilbo's attempts to hush him. “ _Sorry_.  My dear, my dear Bilbo... _ha_. Would that... would that I could take back my own words. You did not deserve my cruelty. You did _not—_ ”

Teeth clenching, Thorin turned his head, pressing his face against Bilbo's palm. “Your kindness brings me low, halfling,” he said, dry lips scraping skin and making Bilbo shiver. “It brings me peace. Even in madness, oh, how I love you.”

“I am _sorry_ ,” Bilbo said again, meaning so very many things, but Thorin merely grunted, unfocused eyes drooping closed. There was little chance he would speak again, and less chance his mind would still be clear if he did. Bilbo reconciled himself to wait, clutching Thorin's hand against the drowning pull of his own grief.

He was _cursed_.  He had _known better_ , and now _—_

“Uncle?” The lift of the tent flap brought sunlight, warm and golden with the promise of sunset, and an equally golden prince of Erebor, though his braids were tangled with filth and the rusty tinge of blood. Fili stepped into the tent, stripped down to shirt and trousers with his arm bound and held in a sling, then drew up short when he caught sight of Bilbo.

After a frozen moment, while Fili barely twitched and the wetness on Bilbo's cheeks began to itch, Fili's expression split with a broad, startlingly delighted grin. Over his shoulder, his brother leaned inside as well, with a bandage striping starkly against his dark hair.

“Hullo, Bilbo,” Kili said, in not quite a whisper. “Thorin sleeping?”

Swinging his good elbow backward, lightly jostling his brother toward the flap, Fili dipped a shallow nod. “We'll come back later on, when he wakes.”

“ _Fili_ —” Bilbo could not let them leave, not with Thorin rattling ever closer to whatever end; he could not be so selfish as to take these final moments of family from them. “Kili, wait, please. Thorin, he... I don't...”

“There's more poppy milk,” Fili murmured, motioning toward a nearby table and the bottles upon it. “If he needs it. You should have better luck convincing him to take a proper dose now that he's spoken to you, and his ribs will be aching fiercely for a while.”

“And don't let him get up,” Kili added, hooking his chin over his brother's shoulder as his eyes strayed toward his sleeping uncle. “The healer said he's to stay put for at least a day or two. Something about the bruises and not pressing his luck.  Which was excellent, by the way, even with the broken ribs; kept the three of us in one piece.”

Bilbo could barely hear a thing over the rushing sound in his ears, but the brothers were beaming as they retreated, apparently satisfied with his gobsmacked staring.

 _I do not fear halfling curses_ , Thorin had said once, reaching for an invisible body through the bars of an elven cage. _I would risk so much to have you, Bilbo Baggins._

_Oh, how I love you._

Sinking down to sit upon the tent's thick reed mats, knees gone to jelly, Bilbo kept hold of Thorin's hand long after night had fallen beyond canvas walls, leaning his head against the edge of the cot.

And later, when callused fingers ruffled softly through the curls of his hair and over the smooth curve of his cheek, Bilbo woke just enough to smile.

_How I love you._

END


End file.
